


Stevie Nicks

by rosalinddd



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, although endgame isnt explicitly addressed so, come gather round gays, post Endgame, sambuckies lets go, yes sam wilson listens to the queen of rock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:05:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalinddd/pseuds/rosalinddd
Summary: Sam and Bucky are happy, happier, and happiest together; here is your proof:





	Stevie Nicks

"What's this?" Bucky asks as he comes through the front door. Sam snaps up from where he's laying on the couch and perches himself on his elbows. Bucky's wrapped up in a red scarf and a tight-fitting black jacket that makes his shoulders look godlike. It isn't all that cold out, just slightly breezy if anything. The sun has been charming New York for a few lucky days now and Sam has taken to leaving the windows open to air the apartment out. Still, Bucky tends to bundle up and this scarf has always been his favorite; an old thing he stole from Natasha a stale winter ago. At least it was only a winter ago for him and Sam. He wears it more now just to have her around. Sam can never bring himself to mention it.

"Excuse me? What do you mean, _What's this?_ " Sam scoffs and watches as Bucky drops the plastic bag, slips his shoes off at the door, and unwinds Nat's scarf from around his neck. They've been living together for weeks now and Bucky's been working from home, writing for a literary journal under a different name. He's seemed happy and Sam doesn't want any less for him. Sam has been consulting with Shield, the mess of it as it is. He's thought about doing something else, like Bucky, but he can't see how he can. And, besides, the shield isn't leaning against his bed frame for nothing. His talents don't lend themselves from artistry like Bucky, or even like Steve's had. Sam remembers watching Steve sketch mindlessly on quinjet rides, in the corner of a safehouse, or absently in small European restaurants—carving holes into the stiff napkins as his pen scraped out portraits of salt shakers and ketchup bottles.

He doesn't do that anymore, his hands not as steady and mind not as committed to singular tasks. But Bucky does it enough, differently, but enough for Sam not to miss the sound of graphite twisting around on cream-colored paper.

Sam opens his mouth to school Bucky Barnes on the queen of rock when Bucky unzips his jacket and rolls his eyes at Sam, _hard_.

"I mean, _what song_ , asshole. I know who it is, don't get so huffy," Bucky walks over to the couch and looks down at Sam, soft smile playing on his lips. Sam lays back down against the couch, placated. Right after they moved in, Bucky started collecting vinyls like bottle caps; they're littered on the shelves, leaning against the walls and tucked into things. It's a commonality like dust, except if Sam touches them Bucky gets a funny set to his jaw so Sam leaves them in their odd places. Bucky likes to say this is the only way to listen to music but also has over 100 spotify playlists, so it's a contradictory point that Sam ignores. Bucky makes those a lot. Says one thing. Means another. Means one thing. Says another. Maybe it's him attempting to find out what he wants or is interested in. Maybe he just likes talking after not being able to and then still feeling like he couldn't even when he was free. Maybe he used to be an incessant chatterbox and it's just finally coming out of him. Outside the apartment, he'll never say a word. He grunts responses to cab drivers, cashiers, strangers waving hello. But once inside he is set off and won't shut his mouth until his eyes slam shut. Sam is fond over that intimacy, grateful he is allowed this gift of hearing Bucky's voice when the rest of the world is deprived of it.

It's such a sanguine sound, soft and alluring. Sweet when Bucky wants it to be. Yes, Sam really is grateful for it.

"Oh," Sam breathes out looking up at that sneaky curl of Bucky's mouth. His cheeks look rosy, probably from being bundled up in the early summer heat of outside. There's even a light sheen of sweat over them. The tips of Bucky's fingers brush against Sam's bent knee, tapping to the beat of the song.

"Oh?" Bucky looks at the vinyl as it spins under the needle. "Did you buy this one? I've never heard this playing in our house."

"Our house, hmm?" Sam blinks up at him. The blush on Bucky's cheeks deepens, crawls all over. Sam gets this too, while the cab drivers, cashiers, and strangers don't. Sam gets to watch Bucky come through the door in a red scarf and watch him walk over to him. Sam gets days and nights with him. Breakfasts and dinners, if Sam's work will abide. They take walks through the neighborhood. They argue about taking in a stray cat. They try to recreate a homemade facemask recipe of Nat's from Sam's memory and when it fails they eat it off their fingers, tasting the oatmeal and thinking of her. They hang up old drawings and photographs and right next to them they hang up new ones. They watch old, insufferably sexist and racist movies and new ones. They play cards at the table when neither of them can sleep and they take turns going to visit Steve Rogers. Sam gets to pick out Bucky's shampoo because he can't be trusted with not grabbing a 3-in-1 soap. Sam gets to pull the quilt tighter to Bucky's chin when he shivers after falling asleep on the couch.

And maybe best of all, Sam gets to make Bucky blush.

"Yeah," Bucky mumbles looking down at him shyly. Sam hooks two fingers around the ones tickling at his knee and pulls on Bucky's arm, his vibranium arm, to get him closer. Bucky follows, getting to his knees and resting a chin on Sam's stomach. Sam hums. "You didn't say what song this is."

"You'd know if you had any taste at all," Sam rolls his eyes. In truth, Bucky's taste is not entirely awful. He manages to make Sam listen to some weird shit but all in all it isn't unbearable. Of all the displaced, wandering human beings he has had the pleasure of getting to know, Bucky is perhaps the most musically tolerant of all of them. Natasha listened to too much seventies punk and Steve got his decades long music lesson stalled in the fifties. Sam begged for him to move past Doris Day and maybe, just maybe, give at the very least Joan Baez a shot but, well. Steve is Steve. But Bucky, Bucky understands nuance and influence. Originality and style.

Bucky's eyebrows furrow as he cocks his head, full cheek resting on Sam now as he listens to the final run of the chorus. He mumbles something about how he _must_ have heard this before when Sam runs a hand through Bucky's hair. The smell of coconut wafts, thanks to Sam, and Bucky's eyes slip closed. The song ends and, consequently, so does the record. Sam put it on right after Bucky left for the bodega and made it through to the B-side before Bucky turned back up.

"Play it again, I'm this close to figuring it out," Bucky mumbles into Sam's shirt.

"You play it again. You're the one on top of me," Sam huffs. Bucky groans but doesn't move so they sit like that until Bucky's stomach grumbles reminding them why Bucky had made the trip out in the first place. The weight of Bucky's head lifts and Sam watches him blink his grey eyes lazily open.

"If you cut the vegetables I'll restart the song and you can watch me suffer internally over deciphering which Stevie Nicks song this is," Bucky pushes himself off the ground and extends a hand to Sam. "Unless it's Fleetwood Mac but I got a feeling this is my girl's solo work."

"If you can't figure out by the repetition of the title of the song in the chorus that it was greatest hit of all time _Stand Back_ then you don't get to call Miss Nicks your girl. If anything she's my—"

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky waves him off once he's standing. He turns to lift the needle and get the music going again. "We get it, you like white people music." Sam retrieves the forgotten bag from the doorway and peaks inside at the contents.

"You are white people, baby. Watch it."

Bucky turns the volume up and saddles up close to Sam, taking the bag from his fingers and dropping it to the floor once again. Bucky pulls Sam against them and they dance achingly slow to the hype of the song.

"I knew it was _Stand Back_ ," Bucky whispers, mouth nearly on top of Sam's.

"No, you didn't, asshole."

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first sambucky fic so we'll see how this goes.
> 
> im @goatmanbucky on twt
> 
> fuck old man steve rogers


End file.
